


Unpublished Verses of Jean Prouvaire

by fruitdesel



Category: Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fusion, Canon Era, Cthulhu Mythos, Kink Meme, Other, Tentacle Sex, may cause gibbering, non-euclidean sexual geometry, really bad poetry alert
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-06
Updated: 2013-04-06
Packaged: 2017-12-07 16:29:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,178
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/750583
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fruitdesel/pseuds/fruitdesel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jehan gets buggered by a houseplant that is actually a Shoggoth.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Unpublished Verses of Jean Prouvaire

**April 2nd, 1832.**

J- visited me today and brought me a gift of a potted plant. I have a queer feeling about it. The planter is slate-grey, with a faint pattern upon its sides that is more felt than seen. Whenever I try to discern the pattern’s meaning, it seems to shift under my eyes. The plant itself resembles a hosta and its Linnaean classification is _Migo shoggothii_. 

J- claims that it aggravated his allergies, but when he tried to throw it out, he felt it was a terrible waste. So the plant has come to me. It emits a pleasant smell at the crepuscular hours, which makes it a more pleasant housemate than most. 

**April 3rd**

My dreams are growing strange. Last night, I dreamt of an endless cave. The only inhabitants were blind penguins, tall as men. 

I ate them. Their flesh tasted like stagnant water. I vomited when I awoke. I was still so groggy from my slumber that I could have sworn the plant was _laughing_ at me. 

**April 4th**

This morning, I dreamt of burying bodies in the snow in mounds shaped like stars. The plant has grown considerably in the past two days and its leaves have taken on the shiny appearance of a ficus shrub. 

Consulted R- on whether he had had any similar fits of nightmares. He stated that he rarely is conscious enough to dream and suggested that my suspicions of the plant were the product of an excess of hashish. 

Enjoyed hashish with R- until I agreed with him. 

**April 5th**

Invited Cre- to investigate the plant. It seems to cause a strange distortion in the magnetic fields of the room. 

The plant does not refract light as it should, either. 

Cre- begged me to let him take it to a friend at the Museum of Natural History for further study.  
I told him I would consider it. 

**April 6th**

The plant inspires me.  
__  
In mind I travel the tideless seas where darkness breeds  
Offer hecatombs to the nameless old ones’ might  
The patternèd planter in silence still proceeds  
To captivate, enthral, in o’er waning light  
Its fall of leaves, which crown of green in darkness leads  
I fear what its too sweet loam withholds in this long night  
What fell intent does it conceal? This plant has needs.

Prouvaire put down his pen. He suspected he might be going mad; his poetry was certainly suffering and his journal had turned overwrought. 

This was ridiculous. It was just a potted plant, and yet it seemed to have swallowed up his entire life. Damn Joly’s allergies and his inability to throw anything away. Prouvaire was going to take care of the thing immediately. 

He picked up the planter and tried to leave the room with it, but he couldn’t take more than a few steps before his own body tried to rebel against him. 

Prouvaire threw the planter at the wall. It shattered into pieces. Prouvaire almost gagged at the smell of it; it was like honeysuckle that had been sitting in a pool of water. The plant was lying on the floor now, limp and harmless in a pile of earth. 

Yet, the plant _moved_. First, it was only a faint twitching of its leaves – easy to discount as the motions of the wind. Then, with a sound like tearing cloth, it began to expand. Long tendrils dug themselves into the floorboards so deeply they sounded about to crack. 

Prouvaire was frozen in place. He could no more run than he could believe his eyes as the plant quickly assumed monstrous proportions. There was a strange trill coming from the roiling centre of the plant, where the vines clustered and beat like a human heart. 

The plant’s vines had grown thick and heavy as his arm in some places. One of them wound around Prouvaire’s leg and wrapped around his waist, plucking him into the air as if he weighed no more than a child. Prouvaire couldn’t struggle as more vines descended upon him, holding him spread-eagled in the air. 

“ _De profundis clamavi ad te, Domine_ ,” Prouvaire prayed, feeling tendrils begin to encircle his throat, “ _exaudi vocam meam_.” 

He tried to free his arms, only to have the vines around his wrists constrict hard enough to make the bones scrape together, bringing tears of pain to his eyes. Prouvaire hardly had time to be afraid before more tendrils forced themselves down his shirt and tore the linen apart. He heard rather than felt when the plant pulled off the buttons of his trousers. Two tendrils snaked inside them, sliding past his balls and then-

“What the _fuck_ ,” Prouvaire cried out when he felt the strangely wet tendrils pressing against his hole. He jerked wildly against the humiliation. The vine around his throat tightened dangerously until Prouvaire could hardly breathe. Prouvaire tried to go limp as he felt himself being invaded by the foul thing. The plant forced itself inside him, the disgusting slime easing its passage but oh God, Prouvaire was in agony from the size of it. The tendrils grew turgid inside him but he couldn’t get enough air to scream. They fucked him slowly, going deeply enough to make him tremble. 

Prouvaire gagged when a tendril was shoved into his mouth, pushing past his teeth and filling his throat with the taste of earth. His head throbbed with the sound of savage drums and he closed his eyes against the awful thing that held him. The vines around his throat eased and the tendril in his mouth withdrew now that Prouvaire had ceased to struggle. The tendril pressed lightly against his lips in the ghoulish parody of a kiss, seeming to nose at him. It slipped down his chest and curled around his cock. The tendrils in his arse were writhing inside him, rubbing against the nerves that made his prick ache. 

He almost sobbed when the plant started to caress his growing hardness. Prouvaire’s abjection was complete. The plant’s susurrations suddenly became louder and he found himself lifted closer to its hideously pulsing centre. The vines unfolded to reveal a shapeless... _thing_ of such unimaginable horror that Prouvaire could only babble helplessly as the thing enclosed his cock. His body was a traitor to his very soul as he thrust into the purest terror he had ever known. 

Prouvaire’s orgasm threatened to tear apart his mind; he bit his tongue in the throes of it, his entire body shuddering. He was so emptied by his climax that he didn’t realize he was being released until he felt the floor blessedly solid underneath him. 

The plant was shrinking to nothing. Within seconds, there was nothing left but dirt and the shattered planter. Terrified as he was, Prouvaire reached out for one of the shards. Someone had written “Property of Miskatonic University, MA” on the inside. 

**April 12th**

Much as it pains me to leave my friends to their struggles, I cannot remain in Paris. I must ease my mind. 

I have secured passage to New England.

**Author's Note:**

> This is probably the fic with the happiest ending I'll ever write, because now Jehan is going to escape the barricade and sail off to Massachusetts. And probably go mad, but hey. Not-so-secret crossover with HP Lovecraft's "At The Mountains of Madness." 
> 
> Because it's not me if there's no gratuitous Latin, Jehan is reciting the beginning of De Profundis: "From the depths, I have cried out to you, O Lord; Lord, hear my voice."
> 
> Pun always intended.


End file.
